


The Garden of Fire

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, Mana may or may not be possessed by the Ring, Post-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: or The Pedagogy of the Distressed.Mana is the Official Court Magician, so she doesn’t know why she’s still someone’s apprentice.





	The Garden of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of experimenting with a few headcanons for post-canon AE. Also I felt like writing femslash. Sorry all I could manage was angry bad-wrong stuff.
> 
> If it suits, please Read & Relax.

Mana is the Official Court Magician, so she doesn’t know why she’s still someone’s apprentice. Why somebody else is still her master.

Her real master, Mahaad, had told her she had become a true and worthy magician, and he had fought alongside her ka as the Dark Magician, against the ultimate evil. And Mana would have thought this endorsement enough. But Isis and some of the others had disagreed. And the Pharaoh Set had been too engrossed in his own projects – gold trinkets and self-mutilation – to pay attention to her voice of dissent. _Or perhaps he just did it to spite Mahaad_ , Mana thought bitterly. _One last insult to beyond the grave._

Either way, a new master had been assigned to help her continue her studies. And Mana was as strong as Isis, and knew more about magic than Isis, but certainly was not as old and stuffy as Isis. So Isis would drone on about history and politics as Mana frowned in her seat and glared daggers at her. And Isis would call upon Spiria to practice the battling arts and stand calmly as Mana struggled. And Isis would sit nearby and write her histories on papyrus as Mana pored over and practiced her magic.

And Mana would sometimes pull the magic texts possessively to her chest, because it was something that was only hers and Master Mahaad’s. Only, as soon as Mana thought herself safe, Isis would intervene and speak with the knowledge bestowed by her third eye. As if she had read the texts, and had been paying attention all along:

 _No, Mana, you should reread that section and double check the tribute before attempting your spell._ Or – _No, Mana, you should calm yourself before you call forth this magic. It is as the text recommended._

And Isis would stand and reach forward, and her hand would brush against the bare skin at Mana’s bosom as she pulled the texts away.

And Mana would blush and seethe. She did not need Isis’s guidance. She did not need a replacement for Master Mahaad. Not anymore than she needed Set to act the replacement for the Prince.

Perhaps it was her age that made them think she needed this. Her age, or how it was perceived. When Mana called her ka forth that day and looked at the Dark Magician Girl, she saw that the formation of her soul hadn’t aged. Mana had grown two years, into a precocious lady of sixteen, but the Dark Magician Girl was smaller and more youthful. And Mana hated her ka, in just that moment, for betraying an immaturity and innocence in herself that she no longer felt.

She loved her ka when the Dark Magician Girl flew into battle. The Ring jangled against her pubescent chest as she surged forward to war against Spiria. (Somehow it had copied itself – imprinted onto Mana’s soul.) The Dark Magician Girl used her magic staff to blow a hole through Spiria’s wing (Isis’s form swayed, ever so slightly) and Spiria fell. And the Dark Magician Girl leapt on top of Spiria and pinned Spiria’s arms above her head. Pressed her lone remaining wing down, sat astride her, and smiled like a smug cat. It was, truthfully, the way a sadistic child might wrestle down a playmate.

“Call her off,” Isis said softly.

Mana turned away from the victorious battle, and put on her best affectation of boredom as she spoke to Isis. “Make me.”

Isis stood still for a moment. She walked across the battle field, past where the Dark Magician and Spiria wrestled. Her necklace shone in the sunlight. She stood at a proper distance from Mana, and looked down on her imperiously.

“You are my pupil,” Isis said firmly. “You will listen to me and- Call. Off. Your. Monster.”

Some days the Ring’s whisper and burn was soft. And some days it coursed through Mana – inciting fire with every pump of her heart and every pulse of her skin and groin. Or maybe that was just her. She might have, in her youth, wondered if she had a crush on Master Mahaad, or the Prince. (Or maybe the world had told her that she must have had one, because it was wrong for a girl not to.) But nothing about it had felt like this. None of it covered the things that she wanted to do to Isis. And maybe it was because Isis was a woman with a delicate and curvy form. Or maybe it was just because Mana was older now, and who was here for her to lust over? Not Master Mahaad, or the Prince. Certainly Set was not someone who she could bring herself to want.

Not that Isis felt the same. The rumour was that Isis was first in line to be the bearer of Pharaoh Set’s children, if another suitable candidate was not found. A lava flow of possessiveness burst through Mana at the thought.

She reached up and wrenched Isis’s headdress off, tossed it to the ground. She watched Isis’s dark hair fall across her brow, and over her shoulder. Her lip caught a couple of strands. And she was gorgeous.

Mana lashed her hand out forward, caught Isis’s wrist, and yanked her down. “You are not him. And I am _not_ your pupil,” she snarled, before pressing her lips against Isis’s.

Isis pulled against Mana’s grip for a second or two. Before she raised up her other arm and slapped Mana hard across the face. Hard enough to startle Mana into letting go.

The Dark Magician Girl was still sitting atop Spiria, but both monsters looked over with curiosity at the proceedings of their humans.

Isis’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she turned to walk away.

Mana could only bear it for a second, before the wail burst up in her throat. “Wait!” She pursued, reaching out to grab Isis’s wrist.

Isis was quicker than her, though. She slipped her arm out of Mana’s grasp, and turned it around to wrench Mana into her grasp instead. She was immediately upon Mana – pressed right up to her, standing over her, twisting her arm.

“You will drop to your knees.” Isis twisted, and Mana whimpered and let herself be pushed down.

Isis was kind enough to follow her, down onto one knee. She leaned forward, and pressed her cheek against Mana’s. Whispered softly into her ear. “I am your master. And you will shut up and _listen_ to what I say. Am I understood?”

A frog welled up in her throat. Mana felt suddenly like crying. She felt like the Ring might as well stab her chest and rip out her heart. But she was eager too. And so she nodded her head vigorously when Isis pulled back and waited for her response.

“Very good,” Isis lavished her with praise. “Now… Part your lips.” She leaned in.

Spiria writhed out of the Dark Magician Girl’s grasp. She vaporised into wind and thin air, and poured back into Isis, who pressed her mouth and body against Mana’s. But the Dark Magician Girl sat in place, watching wide-eyed and unsuspecting, without an opponent or a childhood left to occupy her.

 


End file.
